Breakdown, Dreams, and Resurrection

Do you think I'm an idiot?

Most of the time, yes.

But with what happened yesterday -
Do you think I'm that stupid to not know when you're lying?

...No, but what was I supposed to-

Then why try?
You're a dirty liar, Gloria, and you suck at it hardcore.

Stop it already.
I hated when you two bickered, but I think I hate this even more.

We're bickering now, aren't we?

Yeah, but this arguement actually has a structure.
And Christian's actually being nice about it.
It's not really an arguement; it's more of a disagreement.

Tune us out, Billie.
You need to be concentrating on what the doctor's going to say.

How can I concentrate when all I hear is static, thanks to you and
Christian?

Welcome to The Static Age, Armstrong.
Accept it or leave it, but it won't go away.
You know why? Because your stupid little head says so.

You're real helpful, Christian.

That's what I've been telling everyone!

Are you unable to understand sarcasm?

No, I just like making you pissy.
We've been around forever, Armstrong. I'm sick of repeating myself.
I hate you. You hate me. We are NOT one big family, or whatever Barney sings.
I sighed, and Adrienne looked at me. I wouldn't look back at her, but I could feel the intense worry attacking my annoyed expression, and that made me want to curl up in a ball and rot away.

"What's wrong?" she asked me.

"Nothing," I responded quickly.
I knew she knew I was lying, and she knew that I knew she knew...I think. Either way, I lied, we both knew, and neither of us were going to say anything about it because nothing had to be said. We had been in this predictiment before, and being stuck in it made our throats close up. I was unaudible, so I was in no mood to talk to my wife, the doctor, or the voices in my head.

I can't always get what I want, though.

A doctor entered the exam room. It wasn't Dr. Gibbs, which was the MD I was sorely anticipating. It was an older man; probably in his 60's with white hair, glasses, and a sour expression on his wrinkly face. To be blunt: I was not looking forward to this.

"Mr. Armstrong," he greeted as he stuck his hand out, saying his name was Dr. Marcus Cera. I shook it politley, and my wife did afterwards. "How are you feeling today?"

How are you feeling today? What kind of a question is that?
You have Multiple Personality Disorder; you aren't going to be feeling too hot.

I raised my eyebrows a little, trying to find the right answer. I finally just forced a small smile and said, "I'm feeling a little crazy, actually."

"How so?"

This guy's a dick.
Just thought I'd point that.

Yeah, he is.
That's why I'm quite fond of him.

Of course you are.

What's that supposed to mean?

I'm sure you know the answer to the question.
Or maybe you don't. You are pretty dumb, so...

That was cheap, Christian.
True, but very cheap.

I sighed, attempting to ignore the throng of annoyances that rang out from corner to corner of my beaten brain. "Well...I got diagnosed with Multiple Personality Disorder last year, and I got treatment, but the treatment apparently failed because my other personalities came back a few days ago."

Dr. Cera nodded as he flipped through my chart. "I've read about your MPD issue in the file, Billie." He stopped reading through everything and looked at me sincerly. "I'm going to be honest with you. I'm a firm believer that this 'disease' is just a figment of people's imagination. I would relate it to Mughousin's disease - people believe they are ill, or that they are so varied as an individual, that they create a world where they are multiple people to consolate to their beliefs. I've come across some people that use the idea of the illness just to attract attention upon themselves. I'm not saying you fall into this cateogory, Billie, but the majority of people I've met with this issue have been lime-light yearners."

I just blinked as I comprehended everything the man was saying. "So...," I started.

"You're not going to help him?" Adrienne finished, questioning the doctor angrily.

Dr. Cera sighed as I stared at him in disbelief. "There's nothing I can do for him. Billie, you were on Cynosporian which was an experimental drug that has showed lack of permanent improvement, like in your case. There is no cure-all pill."

"So...," I said again, not sure what to ask.

"What should we do?" Adrienne asked normally, before crudley adding,

"Since you won't do a damn thing for us."

"Adrienne," I tried.

"What?" she asked, and I looked over at her to see her brown eyes glaring back at me. "Do you seriously expect me to sit here and listen to him insult our knowledge? Listen to him say how he thinks we're full of shit?"

I wish she would.
I never liked listening to the wife bitch.

Could you shut up!?

"Right there!" Adrienne exclaimed, which surprised me extremley. I looked at the doctor to see an expression on his face that was probably plastered on mine as well; I think it was confusion.

"...What?" I asked.

"Were you just talking to one of them?" she inquired urgently.

"Uh...," was all I could verbalize before I nodded a little. "How...?"

"You get this haze over your eyes," she explained. "And your face loses it's color. I noticed it last year, and earlier when you lied to me; saying nothing was wrong." She cocked her head towards Dr. Cera, ready to interrogate the man. I actually felt a bit sorry for him for being on the bad side of Adrienne.

"I don't know everything about MPD, but I know my husband. He's sick. He needs help. If there's no medication, what's left for him?"

Dr. Cera didn't seem too put off by Adie's choice of words or blind fury. The way he's behaving, he probably deals with angry wives a lot, I suppose.

"Psychotherapy," the doctor responded.

"And what does that entail?" I inquired swiftly before Adrienne had a chance to make a remark.

"I can't go into the specifics of it, because each therapist may perform their treatment differently," the doctor answered. "I suggest you see Dr. Iris in San Diego. She's a wonderful therapist that I affiliate with on occasion."

He scribbled an address down a piece of paper in sloppy doctor handwriting and handed it to me. "She can conduct hypnosis on you as well as performing pshychotherapy. If there is something wrong with your health, she can treat you. As for myself, I do not believe in such a disorder, and I don't specialize in it. She is more liberal and leniant than I, so I advise you stop in and make an appointment with her."

A few moments later, Dr. Cera left Adrienne and I alone in the cold exam room, which seemed to have decrease to a lower temperature as I felt my heart race.

Psychotherapy? Hypnosis? This was too much to take in all at once, and my body and mind were not taking the news well. A headache began flourishing throughout my mind quickly, and my stomach began doing uneven areials. I didn't want to faint or anything, so I blinked hard, exhaled, swallowed, and forced myself onto my feet.

My legs felt like noodles, but I tried to ignore the lack of control I had over myself. That has never worked, though, and hiding that fact from Adrienne never works either.

"Are you OK?" she asked me as we walked out of the door.

"I guess," I answered honestly.

"I don't understand why you didn't give that doctor a piece of your mind," she said quickly. "Dr. Gibbs understood MPD completley and took our situation to heart. Obviously, he was to be on vacation the moment we need him."

I hated when my wife went into the rants. I loathed listening to her being angry, but, I was upset also. I was just too tired and lethargic to bitch about anything. Of course, Adrienne noticed this as well.

We reached our car and she looked at me curiously. "Are you sure that you're alright, Billie? I'm hesitant to let you drive."

"I'm fine," I said sternly, becoming frustrated.

Adrienne shook her head a little before pulling my arm easily. "You're a terrible liar, honey."

I sighed, but didn't fight her. I climbed into the passenger seat, and Adie sat in the driver's side. She started the ignition and pulled out of the Oakland hospital's parking lot.

The ride home was silent aside from the murmurs of the traffic and the humming the car made. As I drifted off in a depressed sleep, I realized the pulsing sibilation I was hearing wasn't the tires gliding across the recently paved road; it was the static in my head.